


The Adventure Of The Red Leech (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [132]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Financial Issues, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A Shakespearian quote comes into play, over the defrauding of one of the most famous names in England. And Sherlock and John settle calmly into their new routine. Well, sort of.....





	The Adventure Of The Red Leech (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedBlackWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedBlackWings/gifts).



I do not know whether he had planned it so, but my encounter with Mr. Kurt Moriarty and Sherlock's return happened on a Wednesday. This proved to be extremely fortunate, as it meant that I did not have to go into work until the following Monday, so we had five nights and four days to get acquainted again, and to cement our friendship. And I have to say, we did most definitely _cement our friendship!_

Sherlock was utterly insatiable! After our initial encounter he seemed determined to make up for all those years when we had been together but not... well, together together, and I was taken time and again in every part of our little suite of rooms, even up against the window (mercifully that had been in the small hours of the morning overlooking an empty street). The magnificent Mrs. Harvelle took to only making us food when we rang for it, one bell for a cold snack and two for a hot meal, then pushing a red card under the door to indicate that our food was ready outside. The woman was an angel, and wonderfully selective of hearing over those heady days.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was a demon as he took me time and again, never seeming to tire even if I was just lying down exhausted, my limbs hanging limply as he humped away inside me. He seemed never to run out of energy and, I just had to lie back, stand up or, on one memorable occasion, actually get bodily carried around our rooms whilst he hammered my prostate like it had done him some terrible injustice. So, so mercifully, he was much more gentle with me on the Sunday before I had to go into work, but even so, I limped out of Baker Street on Monday morning in very poor shape (and why did there have to be so many stairs between us and the front door?). I had to have a cushion on my chair at the surgery all that day.

I had a smile on my face a mile wide, though. I had my man back, and nothing was going to take him from me ever again!

+~+~+

Three days later, we had an unexpected but welcome guest at 221B. Miss Charlotta Bradbury. I noticed that, unusually, Mrs. Harvelle's maid Anabelle had a tray of coffee and cakes ready, which meant that our landlady must have known of our guest's advent. Miss Bradbury arrived in a sea of red hair – it was curled this time – and almost threw herself at my friend. I felt uneasy at once, and bit back an instinct to growl at her. Sherlock was mine!

All right, there may have been one very small growl, judging from some scruffy-haired person's annoying smirk. That had not changed, worse luck!

“Knew they'd never keep you down, Holmie!” she grinned, giving me a knowing look. “Now, bags I the jam cream finger, then I'll tell you why I'm here.”

+~+~+

“Your Lothario of a brother wants my help”, our visitor said, wiping cream away from her mouth. It was, I thought quietly, unfair that she shared my friend's ability to down all that sugary goodness yet never seemed to put on weight. “One of the ministers in Roseberry's excuse for a government has got himself into a complete mess with a Foreign Power, and he needs my help sorting it all out. And as I have a matter on hand which could benefit from your detective prowess, I said that I would help him if you helped me.”

Typical, I thought. Now that annoying lounge-lizard is getting Sherlock to work for him without even asking! Still, at least we were being spared his baleful presence.

“I am at your service, my lady”, Sherlock said courteously. “Especially after your assistance in removing the stain on society that was the Moriarty family. What do you require?”

She sat back.

“It all seems very mundane”, she admitted, “but in my business like yours, I've found it usually pays to act on my hunches. It's a case of money going missing.”

Sherlock looked at her shrewdly.

“Obviously there is more to it than that”, he observed. “From whom is this money disappearing?”

“ _That_ is the problem”, she said. “Lady Anastasia Wellington.”

I whistled through my teeth. Ever since the great victory at Waterloo over the French back nearly eighty years ago, the Iron Duke had been a political and social force, undamaged (perhaps surprisingly) even by his venture into politics and his opposition to the First Great Reform Bill. When last year one of the lesser London newspapers had tried to besmirch the current duke, the victor's grandson, public reaction had been vitriolic. The newspaper's offices had been attacked, and they had eventually been forced to close down for their own safety.

“John?” Sherlock asked, breaking into my thoughts. “You are the social pages expert. Do you know of this lady?”

I did not resent the teasing tone of his voice. I was still just glad to have him there to tease me. And Miss Bradbury would have to have been blind not to have worked out just what our relationship was at this point, Even with the windows having been left open for much of the day, the place reeked of sexually-satisfied male. That, and the fact I still winced every time I moved on my cushion. (I might add, also, that I was sure I had caught Miss Joanna Harvelle paying her mother money and grumbling about certain men being predictable. And the maids kept giggling every time they left our room. But, it was worth it in the end, even if it was my end). 

“She is not a descendant of the great duke”, I said, “her lineage descending from his younger brother Edward. She is currently the only surviving member of her particular branch of the family, so she has become closer to Duke Henry than might otherwise have been the case, and moved from Ireland to London to years ago. I believe that she lives in one of the duke's lesser London properties in Marley Square, and is about twenty years of age.”

Miss Bradbury smiled at me.

“Perhaps I should employ you in my business”, she said. “Yes, she will be twenty-one this August. And I have reason to believe that someone may be stealing from her estate.”

“How did you become aware of this theft?” Sherlock asked.

“I was following another client, who had business with the duke's estate”, she explained. She produced a small sheaf of papers and placed it on the table. “This lists all the dealings that I deemed suspicious. As it happens, the duke allows three people access to his cousin's financial dealings, so if this is an inside job, it is the case that one or more of them is involved. Full biographies of each are included.”

Sherlock did not reach for the papers, but looked hard at her.

“Why?” he said at last.

“Pardon?” She looked confused.

“Why?” he repeated. “You can gain nothing from this, unless the family grant a belated reward for identifying a criminal in their midst. And the current duke is not known for his philanthropy.”

She smiled.

“Were I to pass these facts onto the family, they would be dismissed as a woman's wild ravings”, she said, not seeming the least bit put out by that fact. “You, supported by your esteemed biographer here, have considerable public standing, especially since your escape from the jaws of death – and yes, doctor, I am one of many who cannot wait to read how it all happened. Indeed, I am sure that the owner of the “Strand” magazine is already planning his new house in the South of France on the back of all those nice, juicy sales! Moreover, I think that this is one of those cases where justice and the law may well require different approaches, which we both know is an area that you specialize in.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “Yes, I will investigate this case for you, Miss Bradbury. I think that it may prove to be quite interesting.”

It was.

+~+~+

“I am surprised at one thing”, I admitted later, wincing at the complete mess that Sherlock had been able to make of his area of the main room in so short a time since his return. Then again, his taking me on his own desk (which mercifully had proven to be stronger than it had looked) was accountable for at least some of that mess. “I would have thought that Miss Bradbury would easily be able to locate the thief herself quite easily.”

“Doubtless she already has”, Sherlock said, jotting down some figures from one document before throwing it into the growing mound beside him. 

I stared at him.

“What do you mean?” I asked. He totalled up his figures before turning to me.

“As you may have guessed, Miss Bradbury is in possession of many different types of information”, he said. “In particular, each datum can be categorized according to its sensitivity, and thus its value. She may be prepared to supply much information to us, but before she risks letting us have access to the more important and sensitive items, she wishes to be sure that we can be trusted to handle matters concerning people on this higher stratum of society.”

I frowned.

“So this is by way of another test?” I said at last.

“Indeed”, he said. “And one that I must not fail.”

+~+~+

The next day, we left to investigate the three people in charge of Lady Anastasia’s financial affairs.

“Does the lady live alone?” I asked as our carriage weaved through the ever-busy London traffic.

“No”, Sherlock said. “She has a companion, a girl from her home village in Ireland who she went to school and grew up with over there, a Miss Maureen Flanagan. And there is also her step-brother, from her mother’s short-lived first marriage, a Mr. Sean O’Reilly; not a blood Wellington, but still close to her. Plus of course a whole bevy of servants.”

“Which of the three suspects will we look at first?” I asked.

“The only other Irishman in the household, a fellow called Mr. Benny Lafitte”, he said. “Benny, not Benjamin, surprisingly. Possibly the least likely of the three, as he was comptroller of the entire Mornington Estate for some years, and only recently took a role in Lady Anastasia’s affairs. He could quite easily have enriched himself in his former post, so there seems little motive in his case. Still, one never knows.”

I nodded.

+~+~+

We eventually reached Louisiana Avenue, Highbury, where our target lived with his family, a wife and two daughters. Sherlock pulled me into a small café, where he mentioned to the waitress that he was trying to find an old friend of his father, a Mr. Lafitte. The girl did not know him, but she advised that we ask at the flower shop on the corner because (and I quote) ‘that Mrs. Allison knows everything about everyone, the nosy old bat’. 

Two decidedly indifferent cups of coffee later – I did not even risk the pie, as it looked both tired and soggy - we repaired to the aforementioned flower shop, where we met Mrs. Allison. I have to say that persuading her to talk about one of her fellow denizens of the area was not in any way a problem. Persuading her to stop talking, on the other hand.....

Of course Mrs. Allison knew the Lafittes well. Mr. Benny – apparently his mother had, for reasons best known to herself, named him after her favourite character from a story about vampires, of all things! – was 'a lovely man', and he worked for some rich lady in the city. Almost certainly famous, Mrs. Allison sniffed, as he most tiresomely refused to talk to anyone (i.e. her) about it. Mrs. Lafitte was a housewife who stayed at home and looked after their two young daughters, although she did pen a monthly article for a local paper, and did good works for the church. They lived at number twenty-three, and kept a large golden retriever called Cajun (Mrs. Allison sniffed disapprovingly at such a foreign name).

There was one particularly interesting piece of information amidst all the gossip. Mrs. Allison said that the family had recently had the front of the house repainted, and some structural work done just prior to that. Such things were, I knew, not cheap, and I wondered where the money to fund such things might have come from. Although Sherlock had a possible answer to that.

“From Miss Bradbury’s files”, he said as we made our escape from Mrs Allison’s monotonous drone, “I noted that Lady Anastasia is exceptionally generous when it comes to Christmas and birthdays. Her companion, step-brother and servants all receive generous gifts for both, and Mr. Lafitte’s birthday falls only a few days after Christmas, so he would have had access to quite a sizeable lump sum.”

“Oh”, I said disappointedly.

+~+~+

It was a short journey to our next destination, as Mr. Peyton Hafford lived in nearby Crouch Hill. This time Sherlock took us to a small office which, according to the brass plaque, was run by a small fellow by the name of Leonard Fitzherbert, whose office was not so much mean as positively Scrooge-like. This was surprising, as shortly before we had arrived, Sherlock had informed me that Mr. Fitzherbert owned a whole set of shops and offices in this part of London. From his appearance, he did not seem prosperous enough to afford even a decent set of clothes.

“Greetings, Mr. Holmes”, he beamed at my friend. “And of course your illustrious medical scribe, Doctor Watson. How may I be of service to you gentleman?”

We both sat down.

“I would of course fully understand if you are unable to comply with my request”, Sherlock said, “but I wish to know as much as you can tell me about one Mr. Peyton Hafford.”

I must have been getting better at reading people, because even I spotted the briefest glimmer of unease on the man’s face.

“The... gentleman who rents offices at number two, Findon Street?” he asked. I wondered at the pause. “He moved in just over two years ago. I am afraid that I cannot say exactly what he does – I take little direct interest in my tenants’ actions unless they are of a criminal nature, and try to respect their privacy – but he pays his rent punctually, unlike some.”

“Yet there is something about him that worries you”, Sherlock said shrewdly. “May we know what it is?”

The man hesitated.

“His hours”, he said at last. “He is rarely in his shop, from what the other tenants tell me, and the days he visits vary from week to week. I made some inquiries, and discovered that hardly anyone has been seen entering or leaving the establishment, which is a little odd. It is just….. he does not appear to be the sort of person who would rent a shop from someone like myself, although I am probably damning my own name in so saying.”

“Like banking, your line of business must require a certain reliance on assessing the true nature of people that you deal with”, Sherlock observed. “What does he look like?” 

“I have never met him”, Mr. Fitzherbert confessed. “He is a recluse, so I was told by his daughter Matilda whom I have met from time to time when she comes to my offices to pay the rent. She is about twenty years of age, but looks and dresses quite a lot older, which I also find curious. She told my secretary that her father had suffered a great trauma in recent years that had made him wish to completely withdraw from society, but that of course they have to make a living. Though she did not say how.”

“Does the shop have living accommodation included?” Sherlock asked.

“Not as such”, Mr. Fitzherbert admitted. “The upstairs is rented separately, and accessed by its own entrance from Bayley Mews, or rather, a path from that cul-de-sac, which ends behind the shops. The downstairs does possess a small room at the back with a single bed in it, but that bed takes up half the floor-space. I doubt that anyone could live there for any length of time, and I would know if they were so doing. It would also breach the terms of the lease.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzherbert”, he said. “You have been most informative.”

Had he really, I wondered.

“In return, may I ask whether you expect my tenant to be moving out any time in the foreseeable future?” our host asked. 

“At the moment, I would say the odds are that you will be looking for another tenant”, Sherlock said. “Sooner rather than later, in my opinion. I promise that I will keep you informed as to how my investigations proceed. Good day, sir, and thank you for your time.”

+~+~+

“What makes you think that Mr. Hafford will be moving out?” I asked as we took a cab back into the city. “Do you suspect that he is the thief?”

“Yes and no”, he said enigmatically.

Sometimes I wondered why I had missed him. Then he edged closer to me in the cab and nuzzled the love-bite he had bitten into my neck that morning, and I sighed happily.

Yes. That was why. I loved him, more than life itself.

+~+~+

The third of the three main suspects, Mr. John Masham, lived outside the capital in Elm Park, Essex. Our cab-ride was followed by a train journey and a further cab-ride before we reached our destination. To my surprise, it was a school. And not just any school. St. Ætheldreda's Academy.

“Mr. Masham is a teacher”, Sherlock explained as we waited to be shown into the headmistress’s office. “He was Lady Anastasia’s teacher in her final year in Ireland, and came over with her to England. I believe that she, or at least her family, stood as referees to help secure him a job here. He was a friend of her father, which is the reason that he was one of the people entrusted with her finances.”

“Maybe unjustifiably”, I added.

“We shall see”, he said. He looked at me with a strange glint in his eyes. “Your presence today will be particularly valuable.”

Annoyingly it was that moment that the secretary returned, so I could not press him as to what he meant. Brooding somewhat (no, I was not sulking!), I followed him into Miss Haverstock’s study.

Miss Ivy Haverstock was a Character, and I use the capital quite correctly in this instance. Her school was justly famous; people miles around were desperate to get their daughters into St. Ætheldreda's. It was not just the quality of the education, but that everyone knew that she ran the tightest of tight ships. Indiscipline on behalf of any pupil was grounds for immediate ejection, and the loss of the rest of that term’s fees. And money or status did not secure you any advantage; prospective parents had to sit through an interview with Miss Haverstock first, and if she did not like you (as one minor royal couple had found out to their shock the year before), your child did not get in. And that was before she interviewed the actual child!

I felt certain (and possibly a little smug) that this was one member of the fairer sex upon whom Sherlock’s charms would fall like the proverbial seed on stony ground. However, I did not have the opportunity to test that theory, as the moment she saw me enter behind Sherlock, her face lit up.

“Doctor Watson!” she beamed.

I immediately felt nervous. Had I treated her or one of her relatives at some time in the past, and if so, should I be remembering her in some way? Fortunately Sherlock came to my rescue.

“Miss Haverstock is a great admirer of your works, doctor”, he said with a knowing smile. “Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice, madam.”

“Not at all”, she said. “Your fame resounds across London, and the capital is agog to hear how you escaped from the clutches of Death himself.”

“I am sure that the good doctor can be persuaded to forward you a signed copy of the work before it reaches the general public”, Sherlock said. “I am here today on business, unfortunately. I wish to ask you about an employee of yours.”

Her face darkened.

“Mr. John Masham”, she said. “ _Indeed!_ ”

Men have probably been hung for less than was in that single word. She took a deep breath.

“Normally I would not even have considered employing a” – she took a deep breath before uttering the awful word – “a Man for a post in my little school. But Mr. Masham's references were excellent, and I had another teacher have to withdraw because her husband insisted that she should not have a paid post.”

I suppressed a smile at the ill-concealed scorn in her voice.

“Hence I decided to give him a trial for one term” she continued. “Initially, things went very well, but of late….”

She stopped.

“What has happened to concern you? “ Sherlock asked. “Rest assured, the doctor and I will be discreet in any inquiries that we have to pursue in this area.”

She nodded.

“He is becoming unreliable”, she said, sounding almost angry. “As I am sure you gentlemen appreciate, teaching is a profession with a relatively low number of set hours, but my employees are expected to put in many more hours of their own time for the good of the children. I demand a lot of everyone who attends this school, children and staff.”

_(I should add at this point that Miss Haverstock’s school was known to pay its staff well above the standard rate for teachers. And despite the fact that the school had not then been in existence for a full decade, several of her alumni had already gone on to great success in their chosen fields of work)._

“And Mr. Masham has not been fulfilling these requirements?” Sherlock asked.

“He has not”, she said sorrowfully. “It is fortunate that when I extended his contract, it was only for one further year, and it expires this summer. The way that matters stand, I am not inclined to renew it.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“If the case that I am investigating turns out as I expect”, he said, “I feel compelled to advise you that Mr. Masham is likely to either resign in order to concentrate on certain other matters that will require his absolute attention, or that he will once more give you his full focus. I would expect a resolution of matters one way or another quite soon, most likely in around one week's time.”

“Thank you”, she smiled. “That is most helpful.”

+~+~+

We said goodbye to Miss Haverstock (my having confirmed that I would indeed send her a signed copy of my ‘Lazarus work' when it was complete), and returned to Baker Street, tired after a long day’s travelling.

“What next?” I asked, after a delicious dinner of kippers from the ever-dependable Mrs. Harvelle.

“I wish to talk with one Miss Jane Grey, a maid at Lady Anastasia’s house”, he said. “She has her half-day off next Monday, and always travels down to visit her grandmother in Putney. Luke says that she dines each time at the “Rhubarb & Custard” restaurant in the High Street there, so we shall intercept her there, and obtain a flavour for the household and the other two suspects.”

“You suspect Miss Flanagan or Mr. O’Reilly?” I asked, surprised.

“I suspect everybody”, he said flatly.

I chuckled at that.

+~+~+

The following Monday we – well, Sherlock and what was left of me after a long weekend that had actually left me begging for a break at one point - decamped across London to the border with Surrey, and the small town of Putney. The “Rhubarb & Custard” was, perhaps mercifully, far better than its name had implied, being situated on the banks of the Thames, and we ordered some coffees before making ourselves comfortable.

It was about half an hour before a plain-looking young girl in a pale blue dress entered, and ordered a cup of tea and a single cake. Typically she sat about as far away from us as was physically possible. Sherlock gestured to me, and we got up and walked over to her.

“Miss Jane Grey?” Sherlock said politely.

The girl looked up in surprise, and an anxious expression crossed her face.

“I am the consulting detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor John Watson”, he said, his voice low and even as if he felt any sudden movement or exclamation might have startled her. “May we be allowed to join you?”

She clearly recognized his name, and…. oh no! There it was again, the simpering look he got from over half of our species. Honestly, he was old enough to be her father!

Was he smirking? He was, damnation!

“I read in the newspapers of your great return”, she said, her eyes alight. “And you wish to talk to _me?_ ”

She sounded frankly incredulous. We seated ourselves at her table, and Sherlock ordered a plate of cakes. He waited for the waitress to return with them before beginning.

“I wish to have your opinion on certain matters involving your place of work”, he said, helping himself to a cream puff which he proceeded to get all down his chin. I handed him a napkin, and he smiled his thanks at me. “Of course, I am fully aware of your loyalty to your employer, but it is she over whom I am concerned. I understand she has both a friend and a relative living with her, and in connection with a certain matter that I am investigating – I am of course certain that I can rely upon _your_ discretion in this matter – I would truly value your opinion on that lady and that gentleman.”

She visibly preened. I was almost tempted to start a stop-watch to measure the time before the next simper.

“Well, Mr. O’Reilly is certainly that all right”, she said, blushing a little as she spoke. “Handsome as the devil, that’s what Miss Flanagan calls him, but a perfect gentleman in his manners. And not at all grasping like some as I could mention; my lady wanted to make a settlement on him because he has no money of his own, but she had to work really hard to get him to accept it.”

But not hard enough, I thought as my pen flew across the page. I caught the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s lips, and knew that he was thinking much the same.

“Now Miss Flanagan”, and the maid’s tone changed abruptly at this point, “ _she’s_ another kettle of fish. The 'Red Leech', we all call her down below, because that's her favourite colour, as well as that of her hair. Always wanting money for this dress, that new pair of gloves, or the other ticket to the theatre. She has some money of her own, I think, but she lives well above her means.”

I sketched a small picture of a cat next to my notes. Sherlock, who could not possibly have seen what I was writing from where he was sat, looked pointedly at me, and I blushed. I had not missed that bit of him at all!

“I see”, he said. He hesitated. “My next question is a little indelicate, perhaps, so I will fully understand if you prefer not to answer. Would you say that Lady Anastasia herself is demanding of these two people?”

That clearly caught the maid off-guard, and I could see her trying to frame an answer that would defend her mistress.

“They do get days to themselves, sir”, she said defensively. “Not regular days like the staff do – Lady Anastasia is exceedingly generous to us servants – but provided that she does not need them for something special, she does not mind if they are not with her. And she never takes them with her when she goes to see the duke.”

“Does His Grace ever visit the house?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“I only know that he came the once, sir”, she said. “Florrie – the between-maid and _such_ a terrible gossip – claimed they had argued because the duke said she had sharp teeth, which I thought a bit odd. Her teeth look normal enough to me.”

“'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child'” I quoted. “From “King Lear”, the Shakespeare play.”

Miss Grey looked at me, clearly impressed. I may or may not have preened a little.

“Lady Anastasia does like the good things in life”, she admitted. 

“Hmm”, Sherlock said, apparently deep in thought. “One final question, if I may be allowed. In your opinion, does your employer spend more time with her friend or her step-brother?”

“Oh, definitely Miss Flanagan, sir”, the maid said firmly. “No doubt about that.”

Sherlock smiled, and called the waitress over.

“Thank you for your time and patience, Miss Grey”, he said. “The waitress will box up the cakes that you do not wish to eat, so you can give them to whomsoever you wish. I am sure that I need not impress on you that you must not discuss with anyone at the house the matters that we have talked about here today?”

“Of course not, sir!” she said, looking shocked. 

+~+~+

I waited until we were in our cab heading back to Baker Street before I said it.

“You do know that she will tattle to every other servant in the house that she has had coffee with the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” I said.

“And his equally famous medical scribe”, Sherlock chuckled. “Indeed. It is one of the things that I am counting on.”

I stared at him in confusion. 

“Are we going to the house?” I asked. He shook his head.

“In the circumstances, it would be better for Lady Anastasia if we broke the bad news to her away from the house”, he said. “We shall invite her to Baker Street.”

“But are you not afraid that the criminal will escape?” I asked.

“Somehow I do not think that is an option”, he chuckled.

+~+~+

The next day, however, seemed to prove him wrong. Late that afternoon, we received a telegram from Mr. Fitzherbert, informing us that the few personal items in Mr. Hafford’s offices had been removed, and that his daughter had reported him missing to the local police, as he had not returned home the previous night. In the days that followed, strenuous efforts were made to locate him, but all that was found was a ring of his, close to the soon-to-be-opened Tower Bridge. It seemed that he had either fallen into the river or had been attacked, and his body thrown in subsequently.

Sherlock’s inquiries yielded one other piece of information during this time, though I did not see the significance of it. Although she would not come into control of her own finances until she was full thirty years of age, Lady Anastasia had on reaching eighteen years of age been allowed to choose one financial adviser for herself, whilst the current duke had chosen the other two. Mr. Hafford, who had been a minor landowner near her ancestral lands in Ireland, had been her choice. Sherlock seemed pleased at that for some reason, though I did not see why.

+~+~+

It was May when Lady Anastasia Wellington finally came to visit us in Baker Street, accompanied by Miss Maureen Flanagan. The two girls bore a passing resemblance to each other especially in the red hair they shared, though Miss Flanagan was taller and thinner. Sherlock bade them both sit down, and smiled in welcome.

“Ladies”, he said politely, “I would like to tell you of a certain case that has come to my attention lately, in which I think you would find something of interest. It concerns fraud and theft at the very highest level of English society, and crimes for which, should the case ever come to court, at least one of the perpetrators would be guaranteed a long time in jail.”

I noted that Miss Flanagan looked decidedly nervous, but Lady Anastasia was as cool as someone of her class should have been. She nodded graciously, and Sherlock continued.

“It concerns a certain high-born lady who, much to her chagrin, is prevented from accessing the full wealth of her estate until she reaches what she considers to be a great age”, Sherlock said. “However, she is as resourceful as certain members of her family have proven in the past, if in the pursuit of rather less noble ends, and finds a way around these obstacles. Being allowed to appoint one of her financial guardians, she persuades a close friend to partake in her ruse.”

“Most interesting”, Lady Anastasia said, whilst her friend's face was increasingly matching the colour of her hair. “Pray continue.”

“The ruse involves the friend pretending to be the daughter of the chosen guardian”, Sherlock went on. “This friend, ostensibly acting on her father’s behalf, rents a small shop some distance from the house, and places a few personal items in it. She makes sure that the rent is always paid on time, and all proceeds well. A few forged signatures, and she and the lady who planned the scheme are successful in slowly removing funds from her estate, so that the lady can live in a style that she considers fitting. Even if she is robbing her future to pay for her present.”

Lady Anastasia nodded, but this time said nothing.

“However, the lady then learns to her horror that a maid in the house has been questioned by a famous consulting detective”, Sherlock said with a smile. “She acts quickly. The non-existent financial guardian disappears, apparently drowned if we are to believe a ring identified by his ‘daughter’. They must lie low for a while, but surely the fuss will soon die down.”

Lady Anastasia sighed heavily.

“Such a case would require a strong degree of proof against so noble a lady in society”, she said, but I could hear the tremor in her voice.

“Proof such as the friend being identified by the landlord who rented the building to the financial advisor, even though there was no way they could have met?” Sherlock asked. “Proof such as the friend’s fingerprints in that office, where they had no reason to be? Proof such as the daughter, who went to the police as Miss Matilda Hafford, could easily be placed before those same policeman under her real name? Proof such as the fact that a certain Mr. Peyton Hafford is actually alive and well, having emigrated to the United States some four years ago, and is prepared to provide by telegraph a sworn statement to that effect? Proof such that Mr. John Masham has been acquiring of late, to the detriment of his own job as he works for the estate that you value so little?”

Her eyes flashed in anger.

“That money is _mine!_ ” she hissed. “My family have _no right_ to withhold it from me!”

Sherlock sat back.

“I intend to inform His Grace of my findings”, he said firmly. “Doubtless he will take his own measures to curb your excesses, Lady Anastasia. You, Miss Flanagan, I would expect him to dispatch back to your native Ireland, so you are as far away from your partner in crime as possible.”

Lady Anastasia shot to her feet.

“Maureen!” she barked. “Come!”

She swept out of the room in a flurry of crinoline, and was gone, her friend scurrying after her. I stared at Sherlock in amazement.

“The ‘Red Leech’ was in fact plural”, he said with a smile. “Perhaps one day, you will be able to publish this case.”

I really hoped so. The thought of laying open that greedy scion of a noble house to public scrutiny was a most pleasant one.

+~+~+

Of all the strange items that our many cases turned around, our next one featured a bad hair-piece


End file.
